


this is my confession to (the crimes of wanting you)

by sapphicwonder



Series: MYRA TREVELYAN: THE ONE WHO LOVED [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (nothing explicit just references to Myra’s childhood as usual), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I don’t know how to tag this, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Just wanted to make sure it was added to the warnings!, Myra has a tiny identity crisis mostly related to the Inquisition, Requited Unrequited Love, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:26:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22756237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicwonder/pseuds/sapphicwonder
Summary: Myra and Cassandra, coming apart and coming together. With some not-so-subtle help nudges in the right direction, of course. Everyone needs a start sometimes.—Not necessarily canon or non-canon, just a thing about my character and my favorite ship.Listen to “Darlin’” by Between the Trees.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: MYRA TREVELYAN: THE ONE WHO LOVED [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618822
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	this is my confession to (the crimes of wanting you)

**Author's Note:**

> hey so this was meant to be posted on Valentine’s Day, and then it was supposed to be posted yesterday, and then it was supposed to be posted last night at 1:28 am but I guess my high ass messed it up so I’m re-doing it. also please be nice because I somehow managed to make this a happy ending even though my crush just went on a date with someone who isn’t me and I’m kinda dying :’)  
> also the identity crisis about the guy thing might’ve been a bit of projection from me so uh. read with caution that’s why I tagged it but felt I should come back and let y’all know. being a lesbian is difficulT

Life after Cassandra’s rejection was...

Suffocating.

Everything seemed to shift, just slightly. But just enough to feel like a pin underneath her collar, poking into the juncture of her neck all hours of the day and night, never breaking skin but never able to remove its presence.

She could deal with her brothers absence — _a gaping hole where there should have been warmth_ — and the emptiness that being Inquisitor brought to her, but...

It’s her own fault, honestly. She had really thought her and Cassandra were getting closer again. They would sit late into the night on the uncomfortable settee that Josephine had insisted was absolutely necessary that Myra have, with Cassandra reading whatever novel currently had her interest and Myra working through reports, each with a glass of wine or perhaps brandy if there was a shipment recently in and Dorian had been by the night before.

They didn’t always talk, but sometimes they spoke of the past, of their families and the things they missed in each other’s lives. It was _comfortable_. It was _good_. _They_ were good.

And then Cassandra approached her, nervously wringing her hands and her normally confident mouth turned downward into a frown. Myra immediately rushed to assure her — she wouldn’t flirt if it made her uncomfortable. There was some amount of truth to the superficiality of a response like that; she did tease, charm, and banter with mostly everyone anyway, but was only interested in women. Or, _one_ woman.

Cassandra.

But Cassandra... Cassandra with her heart of gold and honor, Cassandra with her uncertainty, she couldn’t confess to her — could not bring herself to say that she had fallen in love with the woman who she had promised herself to as a child. Of course, it was the type of promised borne of childish ideation and a desire to recreate the bonds around them, an unwillingness to part from a close friend, but the thought still makes Myra wince emotionally.

Sometimes Myra wonders if Cassandra would’ve liked her more as a man, or, better yet: liked Brandon more if he were still here, and she asks Dorian as much one night when she’s drank just a little too much and her thoughts, normally guarded so carefully, seem to fall out of her like an untended rift.

“Do you think people would like me more if I was a man, Dorian?”

Dorian pauses what he’s doing — _reading a Tevinter manuscript on Elemental Magic_ — and gazes at the Inquisitor, with her head propped up on one hand, swirling the contents of her glass lazily in the other, and staring into the flames that flicker across her narrow features. He places the material he was perusing down on the table beside him.

“I don’t know,” he muses, crossing one leg over the other in thought. “I suppose it’s possible, but highly unlikely, my dear. You are, after all, still the leader of a heretical organization,” his tone is teasing, but it doesn’t bring a wry grin to her face as it normally does. Her face is still somberly contemplative and blank, a tightness in her jaw that he often sees.

“Sometimes I wonder if Brandon... “ she trails off, staring into her glass.

He’d just about given up on expecting an answer when she throws back the rest of her drink, a fine Antivan brandy most certainly _not_ meant to be shot back like _cheap Ferelden swill,_ and if she wasn’t so distressed Dorian would surely make a fuss about it.

With her eyes to the ceiling and her Ostwick accented voice thicker than usual, she starts again.

“My brother was the people person, if you can believe that. Imagine me, but... _better,”_ she laughs, but it’s breathy and unnatural for her and he realizes with growing horror that there’s a tear falling down her cheek. “In every way. Everything I know about being diplomatic and charming, I learned from him. When I make a decision I think, ‘what would Brandon do?’”

There’s silence as he watches her wipe her eyes and pour another glass, sipping at it this time instead of chugging. “If I was a man, things would be better, I think. If I was a man, Cassandra would...”

“Cassandra?” Dorian sits up straighter, nearly incredulous. “Is that what this is about?”

“No!” Myra insists, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol, and then she hesitates, the words stilted on her tongue, thick with apprehension and brandy. “Well... partly.

“She... I flirt with everyone, Dorian, you know that. I might die any day, and it’s... I don’t know. But Cassandra is different, has _always_ been different. And when she asked me if I had been flirting with her, I told her I’d stop if it made her uncomfortable — and I’d do that regardless — but I...”

Dorian’s mouth opens and closes multiple times. “She asked you to _stop?”_

Myra swallows, her eyes shuttering closed. “Yes. Yeah. I... Maker, Dorian, I’m in _love_ with her.”

“Well, everyone knows that, Inquisitor,” he scoffs, ignoring her alarmed noise. “What did she tell you?”

“Something about propriety and me being the Inquisitor, her superior, and a woman,” Myra replies miserably, falling back onto the settee and letting her head hit the edge with a thunk.

_“Fasta vass,”_ Dorian swears, and Myra jumps a bit. He gives her an apologetic look and settles back into his seat, clearing his throat. “My dear, _oblivious_ cousin, everyone knows how you feel for our infamous, broody Seeker,” he rolls his eyes, as if shooing off the idea that it wasn’t obvious. “However, anyone with eyes could see how she looks at you. There’s actually a betting pool going for when you two would finally get over yourselves and, you know...”

Dorian makes an obscene gesture that he would’ve only picked up from spending time with the Iron Bull, a small detail that shows of his time with the Inquisition has helped him grow and expand.

Myra sputters, her face bright red. “H-how she looks at me? Wait, there’s— who started a betting pool?!”

“Like you’re single handedly responsible for making the world turn. And that’s rather easy: Varric,” Dorian replies, watching Myra withdraw and lean her elbows on her knees to stare at the floor blankly until her expression hardens.

Myra snorts, some humor in the way she hangs her head. “Of course it was Varric,” she sighs. “It doesn’t matter regardless,” she murmurs.

“Of course it matters!” He replies indignantly. “In Tevinter, it—“

“We aren’t in Tevinter, Dorian,” she snaps, but from Myra it’s more like a hiss, and then she chokes on a sob. “I’m sorry, it’s — it’s late, I don’t mean to snap. She asked me to stop my attention towards her. That means no confessing my love to her.”

Dorian watches his distant cousin, his dear friend and confidant, bury the maelstrom of emotions deep within her. It swirls within her chest and pulses in her too-big heart, he can see, but she chains it under lock and key even as it fights to be let out.

He stands up and moves closer, sitting down next to her with trepidation. Physical affection has never been something he’s gotten right. Myra barely even reacts to his presence.

Though slightly taller than him — _Free Marchers are all built like oxen, they often say, and the only people who actually out match that are the Qunari_ — that doesn’t stop him from wrapping an arm around her back hesitantly. She leans into it gratefully and he knows then he did the right thing, gently leaning his head against her shoulder.

“Brandon would’ve loved you, I think,” she murmurs after a long while, when she’s finally adjusted herself and wrapped her arm around Dorian too, and they’re basically just snuggling at this point. “I wish you could’ve met him.”

The tears begin to fall again, and he notices not for the first time how adept she is at hiding her tears, like she’s had to do it for a very long time, like it comes naturally for them to fall down her cheeks like rivers and her chest to quiver but her body to barely even tremble. And, not for the first time, he wonders what life she lived before the Inquisition.

Dorian weighs his words in his mouth before he says, “from the little I’ve learned of him, it would’ve been an honor. One day, you must tell me all about him.”

“One day, Dorian,” she agrees hoarsely, raw and open and hurting, the words chipping on her feelings. “One day.”

* * *

People noticed quickly that things were... off. Myra was reserved, the bags under her eyes more prominent, the laughs she used to freely offer now had to be pried out of her mouth. Myra and Cassandra no longer sparred together — it wasn’t on purpose, Myra simply had things to do with Josephine to get ready for the upcoming trip to the Winter Palace, but it was enough to make tails and tongues wag.

Cassandra did try to come up to sit and read with Myra while the woman worked through her reports to make up for the lost time, but found her and Josephine sitting on the settee together comfortably instead. She left with a nod and an odd feeling of having intruded — and then scolded herself for it. The Inquisitor was simply busy, and being her childhood friend does not mean she gets special privileges. And Myra is friendly with everyone, so if her and Josephine were... close... then it meant that her flirtation was just that.

_ Or perhaps it meant that she spoke too quickly. _

Either way, her frustrations get taken out on the practice dummies and the soldiers she helps train.

Bull leans up against the Herald’s Rest, watching Cassandra hack away at a training dummy. He shifts his gaze upwards to shake his head at Sera, who sits on the roof above him, watching the warrior just as carefully.

“Oi, Seeker!” Sera shouts, waving her arms back and forth.

Cassandra, used to the elf by now, does not startle, but does lower her sword in the middle of a form and turns in their direction in lieu of a response.

“You got a problem, yea?” Sera says, leaping down and rolling on her shoulder, only to pop up onto her feet.

The Seeker snorts, looking skywards as if her Maker could give her the patience to deal with Sera. “The only problem I currently have is you.”

“Ouch, Seeker! That stings,” Sera grins, and then circles the woman. “I meant with Inky, yeah? First you look at her all...” Sera presses her hands together, making obnoxious kissing noises, “and then you’re all broody again, stormin’ through the castle like a dragon!”

Bull, for all his Ben-Hassrath training, as to force himself not to laugh at Cassandra’s bright red face and the self-control it’s taking the Seeker to keep her fists wrapped around her sword and shield. She takes deep, measured breaths.

“I did not look at the Inquisitor with any... implications,” she grits out, “and if I am ‘broody’ it is certainly no concern of yours.”

Sera pouts. “That’s no fun, Seeker. Plus, you’re one of us, yea? You’re down, we’re all down!”

Cassandra sputters, and then she blushes again before clearing her throat. “I... Thank you for your concern, then, Sera. That’s... very considerate of you. But there is nothing going on.”

Bull is the one who talks now. “That’s bullshit,” he calls from his comfortable spot leaning up against the wall of the Herald’s Rest, arms crossed against his chest.

“Ha! I get it!” Sera cackles, slapping her palms against her thighs. “Bullshit, because Bull...”

“Quiet!” Cassandra snaps with no real malice. The Seeker realizes she isn’t going to get anymore training done and begins to clean up, returning her equipment and rearranging the practice dummies and subsequently turning her back on the two who decided to interrupt her.

When she’s done, she finds to her disappointment that Bull and Sera are still there — _and how come the one time they wait patiently for something is to annoy me,_ she thinks irritably — and notices Varric coming up the path, with...

_ Oh. _

“Just stay a couple rounds, Quiz,” Varric’s lilting voice reaches them, his elbow reaching up to nudge the Inquisitor in the hip. “It’ll be fun, and you need a break from all the work you’ve been doing lately. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

“I appreciate the offer, Varric, really, but—“

The Inquisitor stopped in her tracks and drops her gaze, turning slightly. “I’ll still have to decline,” she replies, her voice a lower octave than before.

Varric frowns up at the Inquisitor, someone he’s come to call friend, and his gaze follows where hers had been.

_ Ah. The Seeker. _

Though their history is complicated, it’s nothing compared to the history of hers and Myra’s. Something happened between them — _maybe an argument, knowing the Seeker,_ he thinks — everyone can see it, but he won’t let it deter him.

“Come on,” he urges, stepping in front of her. “No more work tonight.”

Though friendly and open, Varric knows his friend is guarded, hoarding emotions and thoughts alike much like a dragon. In the dim light that shines from windows of the bright tavern,uncertainty wavers over the fragile mask she has in place, and he knows he has her.

“Boss!” Bull shouts with a grin. “Can’t believe you finally came out of your hole to see us, huh? You staying to play tonight?”

Myra smiles boyishly. “Sorry, Bull, I’ve been busy,” the excuse rings hollow on their ears. “I’m staying for a few rounds—“

“She’s staying!” Varric replies for her, opening the tavern door. Cole’s head pops out, shaggy hair blowing with the wind that sweeps into the building.

“Hello, Myra,” he says in his ever-quiet way. “Varric is teaching me to play the game with the suits. You should come. They want you there.”

Myra sighs. Shes never been able to say no to Cole, and her shoulders drop. “Alright, Cole, I’ll stay.”

“Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” Bull hollers, body checking Myra and barely giving her time to prepare.

Though unexpected, she still laughs breathlessly and repays him in kind. It barely makes him trip, which doesn’t surprise her, because even though she’s stronger and taller than most doesn’t mean she can match up to a Qunari.

She expects to see him following behind her, but when she gets to the door he lingers. “Go ahead, Boss,” he says easily, rolling out his shoulder. “Got something to do real quick.”

Myra gives him a glance over before nodding and disappearing into the Herald’s Rest, which explodes into joyous cheer once she enters.

Bull turns to Cassandra, who has since returned to her small space above the armory and changed into more comfortable clothes, now sitting comfortably on a tree-stump and sharpening her sword while Sera pesters her.

“Hey, Seeker!”

Both Sera and Cassandra look up, the latter looking relieved for the reprieve.

“You coming to Wicked Grace tonight?”

Sera springs to her feet in alarm. “Aw, shite! Knew I forgot somethin’! Well, seeya Cassie.”

Sera scrambles away and up the roof into her corner of the tavern, presumably to get tipsy — _or plastered_ — before the game started. Cassandra only sighed deeply before returning to the methodical motions of sharpening her sword.

Bull leans against the building once again. “So?”

“I thought my lack of an answer was sufficient. Clearly I was mistaken. No, I am not coming.”

Bull scoffs, his arms crossed against his chest and his mouth twisted in disappointment and distaste.

Cassandra looks up at him abruptly, her eyes full of fire. “If you have something to say, spit it out.”

“Alright,” he shrugs, rolling his neck like he’s about to go into a fight, “you’re a coward.”

Her sword becomes forgotten as she forces herself to her feet and steps into Bull’s space. “Excuse me?”

He only raises one eyebrow. “Did I stutter?”

The fist that comes flying at him isn’t entirely unexpected, but since it’s Cassandra it’s almost impossible to block, his jaw getting the worst of it.

“Ouch, Seeker, you pack a punch,” he grins, watching her hiss and shake out her hand.

The Inquisitor slams open the door to the tavern on the other side of the building, quickly rounding the corner and stopping a few feet away from the pair, her stern expression melting into owlish surprise.

“Uh,” she starts, looking between them. “Are you two...”

“We are fine, Myranna,” Cassandra snaps, and Bull watches the Inquisitor flinch at the name, her head bowing.

“Right,” she whispers, turning to make a hasty retreat. “I’ll just...”

“Oh, no you won’t,” he says, reaching to pull her by the back of her jacket. “This isn’t about me and the Seeker, this is about you and her. Fix it, figure it out, kiss and make up,” he orders, leaving no room for discussion and they’re left to watch as he stalks around the corner into the tavern.

The two of them are left in a heavy silence. Myra rubs the back of her neck with her gloved — marked — hand, awkwardly trying to make herself as small as possible.

“Your hand,” Myra whispers eventually, pointing.

“My... what?” Cassandra blinks, having completely zoned out while trying to figure out what to say or how to simply walk away.

The Inquisitor slowly walks forward and reaches for Cassandra’s hand, who after a moments hesitation allows her to take it.

Myra holds it up to the fading light and that of the torches, poking gently here and prodding softly there, mumbling apologies under her breath when Cassandra hissed in pain.

“It doesn’t seem broken,” she finally declares quietly, pulling a roll of bandages out of her pocket. “You must be lucky, since Bull is made of bricks...”

“You carry bandages on you?” Cassandra asks, almost mystified by this revelation as her friend wraps her hand tenderly.

Myra looks up for a brief moment before returning to her work. “I started doing it when I was younger,” she reveals, pausing to lean down and rip off the bandage with her teeth, “I got into fights a lot — some intentional — and needed to wrap my hands. It became a habit. Now I can take care of those important to me.”

“Myra...”

“Don’t, Cassandra,” Myra mutters, her eyes averted as she tucks the final piece of the bandage in. “I know.”

Cassandra feels something catch, rip, and break in her chest. “No, you do not, I—“

“Let’s just go play Wicked Grace, alright?” the Inquisitor says, pointedly avoiding Cassandra’s eyes as she turns and walks away.

This was one of the moments that Cassandra truly realized what leadership had done to Myra. It left her with the ability to close herself off, to become the _Inquisitor_ instead of _Myra_ , instead of the woman she knew, the woman she had come to...

_ Instead of the woman she had come to care for. _

_But,_ she allows herself, _perhaps that had happened long before the Inquisition._ Perhaps her mother laid the foundation for the Inquisition to create the Inquisitor. Nonetheless, it’s startling to see that type of loneliness in someone’s eyes, in someone you care about, who stands next to you no less than at least an hour a day.

Gathering the courage she has remaining, she enters the tavern for Wicked Grace night. Though Myra clearly hadn’t expected her to come, the brief look of happiness was enough for Cassandra to believe it was worth it.

* * *

“You were — are — right,” Cassandra says simply, pulling up a seat next to Bull the next day, heavily seating herself as if she holds the weight of the world.

He grunts in acknowledgement, raising an eyebrow.

“I am a coward,” she continues, her mouth pinching into a frown, “and I should not have hit you.”

“What, this?” He juts out his chin to reveal a sizable bruise, to which Cassandra does not react except a small hiss. “That’s nothing. Don’t sweat it.”

“I... if you are certain,” she replies uneasily, fidgeting — something Cassandra does not do — in her seat.

“I am. So what are you gonna do about you and the Boss?”

Her concern turns to a glare. “Do you want everyone to hear you?”

He leans in really close, like he’s going to tell her a secret, and mock-whispers, “Seeker, everyone knows how you two feel about each other. Have you seen the way you look at her?”

“How I—what?”

“Like shes an all-you-can-eat buffet table at an Orlesian party and you’re a starving man,” Bull answers, taking a swig of his terrible liquor with a shit eating grin.

Cassandra’s face heats. “I do not — that is absolutely—“

“Right?”

The Seeker deflates. “For one, I’d prefer a different analogy, but perhaps you are... close. Do not push it, Bull.”

He laughs heartily. “Okay, Seeker, alright. Do you want my advice?”

She perks up at that, leaning closer despite her insistence that she would never take advice from Bull.

“Treat her like a person.”

“What?!” She sputters, already realizing that was a terrible idea. “That’s the most absurd—“

“Listen,” he quiets her, an intensity in his eye. “She doesn’t get much of a chance to feel like a person around here, not with the way the Inquisition has raised her up. Why do you think Varric does Wicked Grace night? We all need a break from being a name, Seeker.”

_ We all need a break from being a name, Seeker. _

The words hit her at the full velocity of a druffalo herd running from a predator and she places her hands over her mouth, the wheels turning in her mind.

“Looks like you’ve got that sorted then,” he announces happily, leaning back and placing his hands behind his head. “Job well done.”

Cassandra stands up to leave and then turns on her heel. “Bull?”

He grunts.

“... thank you.”

“No problem, Seeker. Go get her.”

* * *

_Just one more,_ she said. And then _just one more_ became another pile, and another, and another. Josephine came up at one point to demand she take a break, but the Inquisitor waved her off and said she would — _she didn’t_ — and then promptly returned to her work once she left.

Myra leans back in her chair, the wood creaking slightly with the effort, and stretches her arms upwards. Her shoulders pop and crack and she winces, rubbing the dryness out of her eyes. Has she really been here that long?

A knock on her door startles her out of the next paper she’s working on. “If that’s you, Josephine, I took a break,” she calls, fully aware she’d be lying to her Ambassador and friend, but dips her quill into the ink once again anyway.

There’s a small pause. “It is not Josephine.

Myra’s brow furrows and she gets to her feet. “Cassandra?” She asks as she approaches the door, blinking at the sight of the woman when she opens it.

Cassandra is wearing the one formal outfit that she owns, and the kohl that she normally wears into battle is soft around her eyes instead of striking. In her hands is a bottle of wine, her posture shy.

“May I come in?”

“I— yes, of course,” she stumbles, opening the door for her. Cassandra brings the wine to the settee and Myra finds herself grabbing the glasses, as she used to.

Once they’re both seated with a glass, Myra with one leg pulled underneath her and the other fighting not to jiggle restlessly against the floor and Cassandra stiffly — yet somehow, comfortably — positioned with one leg crossed over the other, an arm draped across the back of the settee, Myra turns to fully face her friend.

“Cass?”

That brings a small, private smile to her friends lips. “You have not used that particular name for me in some time.”

Myra shrugs, trying to ignore the heat that rushes to her cheeks because of making Cassandra smile. “I figure it’s time for a change, no?”

“I agree,” her friend replies, shifting on the settee, their thighs brushing as she does so, and her tone becomes serious. “Myra, when I asked you to cease your flirting with me...”

“Cass, you don’t have to say anything else,” Myra interrupts softly, retreating slightly into herself and as far into the edge of the couch as she can. “I understood then, I still get it now.”

“No, I do not think you do,” Cassandra sighs deeply. “Please, allow me to try?”

Hesitantly, Myra nods. Cassandra takes her hand in hers — the marked one, a choice Myra knows was done consciously — and holds on tight.

“I was afraid, when I asked you to stop,” she says quietly, the flames flickering against her sharp features. “I still am. In our youth, I lost Anthony. I feared losing you, as well. And now... look at where we are, Myra. We are in the middle of a war, and there is the fact that you are still my superior. And I did not lie, I haven’t... been with a woman...”

Cassandra rubs her face with her other hand, clearly frustrated, Myra watches her intently, squeezing her hand in support. “But I cannot ignore what my feelings are telling me. I know I care for you.”

Cassandra takes a deep breath, looking her in the eyes now. The Inquisitor is deathly quiet and still, her features almost frozen in place. “Myra, I love you.”

Out of all reactions she was expecting, for Myra’s eyes to fill up and spill over with tears was not one. And then once they spilled they could not stop— she began to cry quietly — surely this was not the little girl she knew, who cried and wailed until she was much older? But many things were different about Myra now — Cassandra did not see how even the little girl who cried and wailed in Cassandra and Brandon’s presence merely sniffled and choked when in her fathers.

“I— Myra? Did I—“

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” she sniffles, bringing trembling hands up to caress Cassandra’s jaw gently. “You said everything _right.”_

Cassandra reaches up to wipe away stray tears with her thumb, tracing the tattoo that dots the outside of her eye and then cups her cheek. Though taller than her normally — by only a few inches, but Myra teases her for those few inches mercilessly — the position they’re in right now gives Cassandra a bit of a boost to be able to tilt Myra’s chin up just slightly.

Time stands very still. “Cassandra?” Myra whispers, like speaking above a normal tone would send her crashing back to reality, like she’s afraid this doesn’t exist.

Cassandra replies just as breathlessly. “Yes?” 

“Can I kiss y— _mmph!”_

What Cassandra lacked in experience she made up for in eagerness, kissing Myra passionately until they’re both breathless. They lean their foreheads together, staring into each other’s eyes with love, adoration and tenderness.

“Wow,” Myra murmurs.

Cassandra chuckles, a rare sound, but a melody to Myra’s ears and heart. “Indeed.”

Myra brushes her thumbs across Cassandra’s cheekbones, her jaw, her lips — Cassandra presses a kiss to each thumb as they pass, gentle and sweet — simply taking the time to explore her.

“Stay?” Myra whispers, her eyes searching Cassandra’s face for something, and suddenly the Seeker realizes she’s looking for signs of rejection. “Just lay here with me tonight.”

And Maker take all of the repercussions, Cassandra thinks, because if saying _“yes,”_ gets her the most breathtaking smile and sweetest kiss she’s ever received, then she will say _“yes”_ a hundred times and hundred times after that. She will always say _“yes”_.

They both stand, still clinging to the other in some way and stumbling over their feet and laughing like fools in love, which they are, Cassandra realizes. Though tall, Myra is not nearly as stocky as her fellow Free Marchers — or Cassandra herself. With that in mind, she watches with a smile as Myra changes into a long oversized tunic before sweeping her into her arms. Not quite how she had imagined it from her stories, but she’s sure Myra can return the favor another time.

Myra lets out a very undignified squeak that doesn’t fit her voice or stature at all, but she’d deny it if accused. _That’s okay,_ Cassandra thinks, because that’s for her to know. No one else needs to see her like this, hear her like this, be with her like this.

In her arms, in the moonlight in only a large tunic, Myra has never looked more beautiful, and she tells her as such. She cherishes the blush that crawls across the tan skin, and she leans down to kiss her softly before gently placing her down on the bed — a four poster Orlesian model, but thankfully nothing outrageous like Vivienne had initially suggested —and beginning the process of taking her own layers off.

Once they’re both in bed, Myra curls into her embrace. Like she’s meant to be there. _She is,_ a voice inside her says. _She is._ Their breathing slowly syncs together as they say nothing more, simply enjoying the comfort of each other, the nearness, the warmth. Myra traces nonsense patterns on her shoulder with her hand lazily, smiling the softest smile she’s ever seen, the tension always locked so tight in her jaw completely vanished.

Cassandra picks up the hand that lays on her shoulder and laces their fingers together, kissing their joined hands. “I am by your side,” she murmurs, grinning when she feels a soft kiss against her neck in reply. “No matter what.”


End file.
